DeadPoet’sPodcast

A tale.

Dear Love, I would be waiting for one message, And I would be startled by every phone callthinking it would be you. But goodbyes don't work that way. Some goodbyes mean forever. And deep down I know, some days, you too, wake up with a faint memory of us together. I don't know where you are and you don't know how far I have come. But The only thing is, I remember you. Ardently. Everyday. Despite the odds, despite our indifference. I just remember you.

Dear Love, I remember you as you were in the last spring You were like a shortbread, crumbling at every bite and had a stable heart. You had eyes like a blazing fire wandering through the forest at night. And I fell into you like water cascading through the waterfall. I remember your hair that shone like a moon and your mole resembling a shooting star. The only way I knew to make a wish was by planting kisses on those freckles, every time and I wished nothing more but only if your body was filled with a city of stars so that I could kiss you indefinitely. I remember your voice, your words, your beautiful expressions, as if those were the music to my ears. If only those were the music I could preserve, I would listen to them over and over and over again. I remember you as you were in the last spring. You had eyes like a blazing fire wandering through the forest at night. And I fell into you like water cascading through the waterfall. And now I wish we could have been like fire and water, flaming and dousing when needed. but we kept fighting fire with fire.

The first time Varun saw her. she was sitting alone in the library, lost in a book, her curls were spilling over her shoulder.He wasn’t sure what caught his attention first. the way she twirled her pen between her fingers absentmindedly or how her brows knit together when she was deep in thought. Either way, he was intrigued.Varun had been an assistant professor at Sikkim University for nearly five years years. At 34, he was one of the youngest professors in the English department. His students adored him, partly because he made literature sound like a movie. partly because he was young, sharp-witted, and undeniably charming.But that afternoon, in the hush of the library, surrounded by books and lights, he found himself drawn to someone who didn’t seem to notice him at all.And that was new.The First Move‘Mind if I sit here?’Varinka looked up, blinking as if she had just been pulled from another world. She took in the man standing before her, tall, broad-shouldered, with a presence that filled the room without effort. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms, and there was a teasing glint in his brown eyes.She glanced at the empty chairs around her. ‘There are plenty of seats.’He grinned and said ‘but I like this one.’Varinka sighed, marking her book with a pencil. ‘Do you always disturb people when they are working?’‘Only the interesting ones.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘What are you reading?’ he asked. She tilted the book so he could see the title, Emergence of Pakistan.Varun raised an eyebrow. ‘Light reading?’ She smirked and said ‘I like depth.’His grin widened. ‘I like trouble.’She sniffed a small laugh and went back to her book, pretending not to notice how he lingered.He didn’t leave.Instead, he pulled out a book from his bag, The Love Poems of Pablo Neruda.He flipped it open and, in a low, deliberate voice, read aloud,‘I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,in secret, between the shadow and the soul.’Varinka looked up, one brow arched. ‘Is that your way of introducing yourself?’He closed the book. ‘No. That’s my way of impressing you.’ he said. She shook her head, biting back a smile. ‘You are unbearable.’ ‘And yet,’ he said, resting his chin on his hand, ‘you haven’t told me to leave.’She met his gaze, holding it just long enough.And that was how it began.